Danilo walked over to the sideboard that held his favorite painting—an almost-skilled rendition of a beautiful, raven-haired half-elf—and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter of elven wine he’d given Khelben as a gift.

“New Olamn is my duty,” he reminded the archmage. “We have had this conversation before. The training and support of Harper bards is an important task. Especially in these days, when the Harpers so badly lack focus and direction. And by the way, you have some paint on your left hand.”

“Hmmph.” The archmage glanced down at his hand and glowered at the green smear, which promptly disappeared. He snatched up the small scroll that lay near the magical harp and tossed it to his nephew.

Danilo deftly caught it, then draped himself over Khel­ben’s favorite chair. The archmage also sat, in a chair with carved legs that ended in griffin’s claws gripping balls of amber. In direct reflection of Khelben’s mood, the wooden claws drummed like impatient fingers.

“How many magical toys does one man need?” Danilo echoed wryly, and then turned his attention to the informa­tion on the scroll.

A few moments passed as he read and translated the coded message. His visage hardened. “Malchior is a strife-leader, commander of the war-priests in the Zhentish keep known as Darkhold,” he para~ihrased grimly. “Damn! Bron­wyn has done business with suspect characters before, but this is beyond the pale.”

“Malchior cannot have that necklace,” Khelben said firmly. “You must stop the sale and bring the stones to me.”

The bard’s eyebrows rose, and his gaze slid over the severely-clad archmage. Khelben’s only ornaments were the silver threads in his black hair, and the distinctive streak of white in the middle of his neatly trimmed beard. “Since when did you develop a passion for fine antique jew­elry?” Danilo asked in a dry tone.

“Think, boy! Even in its humblest form, amber is more than a pretty stone—it is a natural conduit for the Weave. This amber came from Anauroch, from trees that died sud­denly and violently. Imagine the power required to transform the ancient Myconid Forest into desert wasteland. If even a trace of that magic lingers in the amber, in any form that can be tapped and focused, that necklace has enormous magical potential. It can also gather and transfer magical energy—” Khelben broke off, looking faintly startled, as if, Dan noted, he was suddenly considering that thought in a new light. The archmage rose and resumed his pacing. “Apparently we shall have to keep a closer watch on Malchior and his ambitions.”

“In our copious spare time,” Danilo murmured. He lifted one brow. “Here’s a happy thought. When you say ‘we,’ perhaps you are employing the royal ‘we,’ and excluding your humble nephew and henchman?”

Khelben almost smiled. “Keep thinking in that manner,” he said. “They say that dreams are healthy.”

“Uncle, may I be frank?”

This time, the archmage looked genuinely amused. “Why stop on my account?”

“I am concerned about Bronwyn. Stop frowning so— nothing is out of the ordinary. All has been done as you requested. I have arranged to have her watched and pro­tected. I have quietly fostered her shop as the right place to acquire gems and oddities, ensured that her acquisitions are seen on those who mold the whims of fashion, made certain that she receives social invitations likely to build her reputation and her client list. In short, I have kept her busy, happy, and here in Waterdeep.

“But may I be damned as a lich if I know why, and damned thrice over if I am proud of my part in the manip­ulation of a friend and a fellow Harper!”

“Consider it ‘management,’ then,” Khelben answered, “if the other word displeases you.”

Danilo shrugged. “A goblin by any other name is just as green.”

“What a charming bromide. Is that the sort of thing you’re teaching in the bard school?”

“Uncle, I will not be distracted.”

The archmage threw up his hands. “Fine. Then I, too, will be blunt. Your words display far more naiveté than I would have expected from you. Of course the Harpers must be managed. The decisions an agent must make are often too important, too far-reaching, to leave entirely in one person’s hands.”

“Unless, of course, that person is yourself.”

Khelben stopped his pacing and turned slowly, exuding in condensed form the wrath and power of a dragon rampant. “Have a care how you speak.” he said in a low, thrumming voice. “There are limits to what I will endure, even from you.”

Danilo held his ground, though he better understood the true scope of Khelben’s power than did most who stood in awe of the great archmage. “If I offended, I beg pardon, but I only speak the truth as I see it.”

“A dangerous habit,” Khelben grumbled, but he subsided and turned away. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out a window—a window that shifted position ran­domly, and that was never visible from the outside of the tower. The current vista, Dan noted, was especially impres­sive: the luxury of Castle Ward, crowned by the majestic sweep of Mount Waterdeep. A trio of griffons from the aerie at the mountain’s summit rose into the sky, their tiny forms silhouetted against sunset clouds of brilliant rose and amethyst. Danilo watched them circle and take off on their appointed patrol as he waited for the archmage to speak.

“You have no doubt wondered why we keep such close watch on Bronwyn, a young Harper whose missions mostly entail carrying messages.”

“No doubt,” Danilo said dryly. He folded his arms and stretched his long legs out before him. “What was your first portent of this? The many times I demanded to know why I was made a mastiff to herd this particular sheep?”

“Sarcasm ill becomes you,” Khelben pointed out. “You would not be so flippant if you understood Malchior’s possible interest in Bronwyn.”

“Then tell me.” Dan traced a rune over his heart, in the manner of one schoolboy making a pledge to another. “I shall be the very soul of discretion.”

The archmage’s smile was bleak and fleeting. “I have never found you to be anything less, but you must accept that this is a tale best untold. I would like to keep it so. Go now, and get that necklace before it falls into Malchior’s hands.”

“Bronwyn values her reputation for making and keeping deals. She will not thank me for interfering.”

“She need not know of your involvement. It would be bet­ter so. But if that is not possible, use whatever means needed to separate her from the necklace.”

“Easily said,” Dan remarked as he headed for the door.

Khelben lifted a skeptical brow. “Timid words, from a man whose first contribution to the Harper cause was his ability to separate women from their secrets.”

The young Harper stiffened, then turned. “I will do as you say, Uncle, but not in the manner you imply. I resent this assignment, and I deeply resent your assault on my character.”

“Can you deny the truth in my words?”

Dan’s smile was tight and rueful. “Of course not. Why do you think I resent them?”

* * * * *

Steam filled the room and Bronwyn, who had had time after returning to the city to clean up, dress up, and take certain precautions, squinted into the mist. As her eyes adjusted, she noted the gray-bearded man lounging in the vast bath, his fleshy pink arms spread along the rim. His black eyes swept appreciatively over her. “You are prompt, as well as beautiful,” he said in courteous tones. “I trust you have the necklace?”

Bronwyn closed the door behind her and settled down in a cushioned chair. “I would not risk carrying it with me, for fear of being waylaid. My assistant expects to send it by courier.”

“Just as he anticipates your imminent return, no doubt,” the man said dryly.

She responded with a demure smile. “Such precautions are needed, my lord Malchior, as my experience has proved many times over.” Especially when dealing with the Zhentarim in general, and priests of Cyric in particular, she noted silently. Noting his scrutiny, she spread her hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “But I will not bore you with my little stories.”